


Texas Hold 'Em

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Jamie Moriarty - Freeform, M/M, Other, Poker, Power Play, Strip Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"Eighty." The chips clink dully against each other where Jamie flicks them onto the table.'</p><p>Seb and Jamie Moriaty play strip poker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texas Hold 'Em

  
“Eighty.” The chips clink dully against each other where Jamie flicks them onto the table.

“Call,” Seb mutters, pushing over a pile to meet hers in the pot.

She arches an eyebrow at him, flicking her brown eyes his way, measuringly. They’re not chocolate brown, not sweet enough, but bitter, sharp, and sick, like raw cacao. Without looking down at the river card, she flips it over. Jack of hearts.

A quick examination of his cards, and he smirks. “Straight, queen high.” He fans the cards out on the table. The jack was just what he needed.

Jamie pulls a face, scrunching her nose. It’s a juvenile move, but on her, it looks half childish and half deranged. Seb thinks it’s appropriate. He rather likes it. “Three of a kind, kings, with an ace and a ten.” Not quite the full house she was clearly going for.

“My game,” Seb says, pulling the chips his way. He arranges them neatly into the piles stacked in front of him. It was about time, too. He’d already lost the first three rounds and was missing his socks, belt, and tie; they’re small pieces of clothing, but then, the bets he had lost had been low, much lower than this.

She frowns briefly at the chips disappearing towards Seb’s end of the table, then shrugs. “Eighty. Shirt, then.” She starts unbuttoning the pale turquoise blouse, shrugging her shoulders out of it one at a time, and tosses the shirt over the back of an empty chair next to her. She is left in a white lace bra, with her thin tie draped between her breasts. When she leans forward, it trails and skims along the edge of her bare stomach before resting against the table.

He tells himself that it’s perfectly normal to watch.

Jamie collects the cards and goes to shuffle, but the ends of her dark hair keep fluttering against the cards. She makes an irritated noise and drops them, scraping her hair out of the way and yanking it back into a messy bun, twisting a hair tie from her wrist around it with the speed and blind agility that Seb has begun to believe is genetic for girls. It’s uneven and ragged, with pieces of hair falling down and floating around her shoulders. He briefly wonders if they feel as feathery as they look.

She returns to shuffling, passing the cards swiftly between her fingers, and then the round begins anew.

“Ten.” Clink.

“Raise, fifty, come on, now, Seb, grow a pair.” She grins at him fiercely and shoves a handful of chips into the pot from her tumultuous mountain.

He sighs and reveals the flop cards. “Fine. Sixty.” He is all caution and carefully mapped choices where she would rather light a bonfire of the guidebooks.

She rolls her eyes and leans back in her seat, propping one ankle up on the table, then other. He can’t help but follow the long line of her legs from the black patent stilettos that could put an eye out all the way to her Armani charcoal pencil skirt. It’s impossible not to notice that the way she’s crossed her ankles has shifted the hem of her skirt up another several centimeters, exposing more pale thigh.

“Raise to a hundred.” That snaps his eyes off of her legs and back to her face. She’s watching him with a smirk, and he’s not sure if it’s because she caught him looking or because she’s apparently got an excellent hand.

Seb casts a look to his cards, then the flop cards, evaluating. “Call,” he decides, and flips over the turn card. Four of diamonds.

“Bo-ring,” she sings, and pushes more chips across the table. “Two hundred, take it or fold.”

He narrows his eyes, examining her face. She meets his gaze with her patented smirk, and God knows what’s going on behind that; Seb is aware that he is possibly the one living human to know her best, and _he_ has barely scratched the surface.

Eventually, he looks down to his chips, drums his fingers on the table, and counts out a tower of chips to place in the pot. “Call,” he says slowly, feeling the word slip out of his mouth with the distinct impression that he’s gambling away more than chips and socks.

Her smirk widens. “Good boy,” she murmurs, and her voice is velvet on steel.

He flips the river with no small amount of trepidation.

Ace of spades.

Across the table, Jamie makes a noise and slaps her cards down. “Straight flush, diamonds, eight high.” She pushes her index and middle fingers to her lips and blows a kiss at him.

But Seb can feel a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “That is very impressive, Jamie. Except, _I’ve_ got a royal flush.” He spreads the cards out on the table as proof.

There’s a long moment of silence in which Jamie glances between the cards and Seb, then finally she begins to laugh, head thrown back and throat long and exposed. It makes the tie around her naked neck seem obscene, and Seb has the sudden urge to wrap his hands around it and pull her in. Instead, he slides his chips into his pile.

“Two hundred,” she eventually says. The laughter has faded but the amusement remains in her voice, bubbles of warm acid. “If fifteen is a belt and eighty is a shirt, then two hundred…”

She looks back to Seb, then smirks, wide and wicked. Hooking one finger, she slips her hand beneath her skirt and tugs. At first he doesn’t understand, and then he sees the matching white lace panties emerging from the hem of her skirt. They catch on her knees, so she shift-slides her thighs just so to pass them slowly down her thighs and draw her heels through the holes. She flicks her wrist and tosses them onto the table, where they land softly on Seb’s neatly stacked towers of chips, dangling invitingly.

His mouth is suddenly very dry.

He licks his lips and starts, “Jamie – “ but he stops, because there’s no right ending to that sentence. He’s fairly certain there’s no right ending to this game.

Except Jamie doesn’t seem to care, because Jamie is all about wrong. Jamie is the _mistress_ of wrong, and she’s already out of her chair, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs, and God, that is so much more difficult to watch now that he knows what _isn’t_ under it. She clicks around the table on her stiletto heels until she’s standing in front of him and he can’t take his eyes off of her. She gives him the same look he’s seen her give the computer screen when she’s arranging pieces of a puzzle, parts of a crime, to land just so when the dominos fall. It’s the entirety of her concentration, and it makes him draw in a breath.

He leans forward towards her, but she stops him with an imperious hand on his chest, shoving him back into the chair. He’s pinned more by the gunmetal stare than her hand, but she leaves it there, and it burns through his shirt. Her other hand drops between them to his trousers, flicking open the button and pulling down the zipper, and then yanks them down with his boxers, exposing him. She touches him lightly with two fingers and he groans, hips twitching upwards to meet her hand. She immediately shoves at his chest again and says, low and firm, “Don’t move.”

Hell. He swallows again, harder.

“Good boy,” she repeats, and he can’t believe this is happening.

She steps forward, which has the tantalizing effect of pushing her breasts into his line of sight only inches from his face; he wants nothing more than to kiss them, tease them out of her bra, but her hand is pushing on his chest harder now, and disobeying Jamie has never borne good consequences.

Her hips are now above him, but before he can contemplate how far-but-close she is, she’s lowering herself down onto him with a cruel slowness, skirt bunching at her hips as she takes him in, and it’s agonizing flames all the way down. She settles her weight onto his thighs, and instinct makes Seb raise his hands to rest them at her slender waist, fingers splaying across the pale expanse of her skin. She growls, smacking his hands away, and hisses, _“No,”_ in a tone that brooks no resistance. He clutches onto the arms of the chair instead, knuckles turning white, and tries desperately not to buck into her.

She stares down at him, watching, waiting, _daring,_ and the long minutes of stillness stretch on, driving him mad. He doesn’t dare move now. She would probably stop and get off of him, or she might also kill him. He’s not sure at the moment which one would be worse. But when he stays, tense and unmoving beneath her, this is apparently what she was waiting for, as she jerks her chin down fractionally in an almost-unnoticeable nod.

When Jamie finally begins to move, he finds that he is breathing again, and doesn’t quite recall when he had stopped. She pushes herself up and down, thighs clamped around his, high heels hooked onto the legs of the chair. Seb has been tortured before, he’s been under knives, jumper cables, pliers, and worse, and somehow holding still while being tortured then was not as difficult as holding still now, when all he wants to do is grab her and grip tight until his fingers leave bruises on those pale shoulders.

But the waves of heat that crash over him as she moves are intensely distracting, and it’s difficult to be upset about it when she’s beginning to moan. Her fingers curl inwards on his chest, fingernails scraping like knives, and he knows that in the morning there will be red, angry lines, even through the fabric of his shirt. He groans, because suddenly that sounds _gorgeous_ , and at the sound, Jamie pushes down hard until his hands scrabble at the armrests for purchase.

Without warning, she leans in towards him, hair tickling his neck. Her breath is hot on his cheek and her lips ghost over the edges of his ear as she whispers, “Just so you know. I play with marked cards. I could have cleaned you out anytime I wanted, but I raised the stakes and _let. you. win._ ”

She quickly turns her head and bites down _hard_ on his shoulder, deep enough to draw blood, and his eyes fly open. That’s it, and he’s gone with a gasp and a deep shudder that carries them through static and white fire. When he regains his breath, he finds her looking at him with a smug, maddening, possessive smile. She kisses his shoulder in the center of the circle of teeth, and he thinks he’s in love.


End file.
